.                                  Even if I compressed galaxies
                             Into a nebulous ink of stardust dew,
                             It would fail to, with words, describe,
                                  The beauty that's contained
                                                  In You.

I should hate you
for making me fall in love.
I should despise you
for breaking my heart.
I should curse your
memories for always being there.

I should feel all of that..
...but I don't...

Instead,
I love you
for teaching me to love again.
I love you
for making me feel again.
I love you
for the wonderful memories you bring.

Yes, I should hate you,
despise you,
curse you,
but instead,
I love you.

-E.T.

a boy waiting patiently at the train station
he lights up a cigarette
can't smell the flowers in his hand
over the smell of petrol

i don't remember what happened
when i saw you
arms stretched, bodies entwined
happy tears, nose kisses

i never did meet you at that station
but if i did
i would still be locked in your kiss

Up until my insomnia meets me
I lied when I said I forgot
I was scared what you'd think
If I said that  I love you a lot

People have only cared for minutes
Leaving me to care for days
When I look at you all I can think
Is please don't go away

I can see me in your eyes
I dream of dreaming with you
I can trace your scars with mine
My thoughts are bleeding through:

My Talia, I know what it's like to not be seen;
what it's like to be alone in a crowded room.
For you, my star, I want you to know:
that no one shines as bright as you.

I can taste you moving on my skin.
My gasp is air you sustain.
hand in hand, under an umbrella
with you, I am safe.

Here lies my eighteenth birthday,
The days we've kissed, and said goodbye

And all the laughs and heart to hearts,
Our extinguished tears and fiery eyes,

And all our childish fantasies,
Dog breeds, houses, children's names,

And the blackened fragments of our lungs --
From which we laughed and gayly sung --

Now rest peacefully in the ashtray.

A writer asked me long ago,
For advice on getting better.
He runs through his works with a fine-tooth comb,
Sculpting each and every letter.

I said,firstly sheath your fine-tooth comb,
For blood-lust it will only bring,
And undress your cliche armour sir,
For it only numbs the sting.

And then I said, with cigarette lit,
Be not ashamed of all your vices,
You're allowed to care; and it's fine to swear --
It's allowed, if you can write it.

Don't do this **** for fortune,
For fame or to be credited,
And if you want advice on writing well --
Keep that **** unedited.